Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
It is amazing to see
How big they can be
Yesterday so small
Today so tall.
Children grow up so fast
Babies they don't last
The years fly by
It can make you sigh.
But watching them grow
Is like watching a show
The ups and downs
The tears and the clowns.
But no matter what the age
And no matter what the stage
Our love for our child always grows
They will always be our baby you know!
Poet: Herbert Hoover
Children are the most wholesome part of the race,
the sweetest, for they are the freshest from the Hand of God.
Whimsical, ingenious, mischievous,
they fill the earth with joy and good humor.
We adults live a life of apprehension to what they think of us;
a life of defense against their terrifying energy;
a life of hard work to live up to their great expectations.
We put them to bed with a sense of relief -
and greet them in the morning with delight and anticipation.
We envy them the freshness of adventure and the discovery of life.
In all these ways, children add to the wonder of being alive.
More poems about children:
Baby Poems
Poems about Children
Grown-Up Poem
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Most every night when they're in bed,
And both their little prayers have said,
They shout for me to come upstairs
And tell them tales of gypsies bold,
And eagles with the claws that hold
A baby's weight, and fairy sprites
That roam the woods on starry nights.
And I must illustrate these tales,
Must imitate the northern gales
That toss the native man's canoe,
And show the way he paddles, too.
If in the story comes a bear,
I have to pause and sniff the air
And show the way he climbs the trees
To steal the honey from the bees.
And then I buzz like angry bees
And sting him on his nose and knees
And howl in pain, till mother cries:
"That pair will never shut their eyes,
While all that noise up there you make;
You're simply keeping them awake."
And then they whisper: "Just one more,"
And once again I'm forced to roar.
New stories every night they ask.
And that is not an easy task;
I have to be so many things,
The frog that croaks, the lark that sings,
The cunning fox, the frightened hen;
But just last night they stumped me, when
They wanted me to twist and squirm
And imitate an angle worm.
At last they tumble off to sleep,
And softly from their room I creep
And brush and comb the shock of hair
I tossed about to be a bear.
Then mother says: "Well, I should say
You're just as much a child as they."
But you can bet I'll not resign
That story telling job of mine.
Poet: Unknown
Wait not till the little hands are at rest
Ere you fill them full of flowers;
Wait not for the crowning tuberose
To make sweet the last sad hours;
But while in the busy household band
Your darlings still need your guiding hand
Oh, fill their lives with sweetness!
Wait not till the little hearts are still
For the loving look of praise;
But while you gently chide a fault.
The good deed kindly praise.
The word you would speak beside the bier
Falls sweeter far on the living ear:
Oh, fill young lives with sweetness!
Ah, what are kisses on clay-cold lips
To the rosy mouth we press.
When our wee one flies to her mother's arms
For love's tenderest caress!
Let never a worldly babble keep
Your heart from the joy each day should reap.
Circling young lives with sweetness.
Give thanks each mom for the sturdy boys.
Give thanks for the fairy girls;
With a dower of wealth like this at home.
Would you rifle the earth for pearls?
Wait not for Death to gem Love's crown.
But daily shower life's blessings down.
And fill young hearts with sweetness.
Remember the homes where the light has fled.
Where the rose has faded away
And the love that glows in youthful hearts.
Oh, cherish it while you may!
And make your home a garden of flowers.
Where joy shall bloom through childhood's hours.
And fill young hearts with sweetness.
Poet: John Farrar
The birches that dance on the top of the hill
Are so slender and young that they cannot keep still,
They bend and they nod at each whiff of a breeze,
For you see they are still just the children of trees.
But the birches below in the valley are older,
They are calmer and straighter and taller and colder.
Perhaps when we've grown up as solemn and grave,
We, too, will have children who do not behave!
Poet Unknown
Hold diligent converse with thy children! have them
Morning- and evening round thee; love thou them,
And win their love in these rare, beauteous years;
For only while the short-lived dream of childhood
Lasts are they thine — no longer! When youth comes
Much passes through their thoughts, -which is not thou,
And much allures their hearts, - which thou hast not.
They gain a knowledge of an older world
Which fills their souls; and floats before them now
The future. And the present thus is lost.
Then with his little traveling-pocket full
Of indispensables, the boy goes forth.
Weeping, thou watchest till he disappears,
And never after is he thine again!
He comes back home - he loves - he wins a maid -
He lives! They live, and others spring to life
From him; and now thou hast in him,
A human being, but no more a child!
Thy daughter, wedded takes a frequent joy
In bringing thee her children to thy house!
Thou hast the mother, but the child no more!
Hold diligent converse with thy children! have them
Morning and evening round thee; love thou them,
And win their love in the rare, beauteous years.
Poet Unknown
Got to understand the lad -
He’s eager to be bad.
Were he now exceeding wise,
He’d be just about your size.
When he does things that annoy,
Don’t forget—he’s just a boy.
Could he know and understand,
He would need no guiding hand,
Doesn’t know from day to day
There is more in life than play,
More to face than selfish joy.
Don’t forget—he’s just a boy.
Being just a boy, he’ll do
Much you will not want him to.
He’ll be earless of his ways,
Have his disobedient days,
Things of value he’ll destroy,
But reflect—he’s just a boy.
Just a boy who needs a friend -
Patient, kindly to the end;
Needs a father who will show
Him the things he wants to know.
His companionship enjoy.
Don’t forget—he’s just a boy.
